Two Spear's Tribe
by Rhapsody Belle
Summary: When Two-Spear and Skyfire split the tribe asunder, legends of the Father Tree Wolfriders hold that Two-Spear and all that followed him died in their mad quest. The truth is somewhat different...


**ElfQuest: Two-Spear's Tribe**

**Prologue: The Way**

_There are more bodies than she's used to around the Howl fire, more bodies than she's ever seen before in one place at one time. Not only does her tribe, the Wolfriders of the Deep Green Holt, wait in breathless expectation of the Howl to come with glowing eyes turned towards their chieftess, but two other tribes sit, stand and lean as well: the Howling Rock tribe and the Father Tree tribe swell the numbers to nearly three times what she is used to seeing._

_And for the first time, she is not the only chief present. Amongst the mingled tribes, not one but _two _other chief's locks sway in the evening breeze. Not one but _two _other chiefs share the fire, and the wait, and the anticipation. She has not felt nervous or uncertain in turns and turns, but the piercing blue gaze of Cutter Kinseeker and his dark-skinned daughter Ember feed the worry that gnaws in the pit of her belly. The Deep Green tribe is not used to trusting outsiders; the alpha wolf in her snarls for a dominance challenge. The elf in her wonders if these are truly her kin._

_Then the breeze shifts, and the scents of all three tribes wash over her, reassuring in their familiarity, even when the individual scents are only newly known. No, these are all kin here. More than kin. Brothers and sisters left behind in their ancient past. A pack once divided finally brought together again. _

_The fear dissipates, leaving only sweet, fierce joy in its wake. They are all Wolfriders. Even the ones who were not born to this life carry the commingled scent of wolf and elf, and it is good. There is only one thing she can do now, only one response the wolf in her wants to make. _

_She throws back her head and howls._

_The three tribes join her, voices lifting and resounding as one. The chorus rises, swells. The wolves each of those present call "friend" add their calls. It is a reminder, immediate and poignant, that no matter how far back their lines diverge, they are all family. They are all one._

The light of Mother Moon, full in the night sky, flashed on the blade of Brightmoon's sword Longclaw as she brought the point to her palm and cut. Blood welled quick and dark from the wound, and as the howl faded into echoes, she stretched her hand before her. "I am Brightmoon," she cried, "and eight and four chiefs have gone before me."

With a twist of her wrist, she turned her palm to face the ground, and the first drop fell, fat and gleaming, to soak into the ground. She was expecting only her tribe's voices to lift, intoning the proud lineage she claimed, but to her surprise, every Wolfrider spoke the names, each to a single drop of blood as it splashed onto the soil.

"Timmorn Yellow-Eyes... Rahnee the She-Wolf... Prey-pacer... Two-Spear..."

"Eight and four chiefs have sung the wolfsong, run with the pack, and have lived and died by the laws of the forest."

Here might have been where the Howling Rock and Father Tree tribes halted their chant, for here was the end of their shared lineage. Four chiefs did she and Cutter and Ember share as ancestors; their tribes had little reason to have learned the names of the eight that had lived since that time. But her breath caught when no voice fell away, when every Wolfrider present continued the chant.

"Blinkstrike... Sweetleaf... Talon... Howler..."

"Tonight we sit in the company of those long left behind, not just kin but _family_. Tonight, we share their fire, we share their meat and dreamberries, we share their stories and we offer ours."

"Blackfur... Ravensong... Stoneblood... Sabretooth!"

The last drop of blood fell, and Brightmoon turned her hand over again. There were no more chiefs, and no more blood drops would fall. "Tonight's howl," she said, resheathing her blade, "is for the time that was, when family turned against family, brother against sister, packmate against packmate. Tonight, we howl of the madness that divided Two-Spear from Skyfire, Father Tree from Deep Green, and the countless turns our tribes have been separated." She skimmed over faces, met eyes after eyes, seeking and finally finding what she was looking for. "Shadowlight."

The lithe Howlkeeper tipped her head and drained the skin of dreamberry wine, wiped her mouth and handed the empty skin to the round-cheeked Pike sitting beside her. "I come, my chief," she said and rose to her feet. To her credit, she swayed only slightly and quickly steadied herself on her lovemate Sureshot's helpfully extended hand. "Apologies, my chief," she said with a tipsy grin she could not completely contain. "A solemn occasion this might be, but this dreamberry wine of our brothers is stronger than what I'm used to."

A quick ripple of laughter broke the building tension, and even dour Bristlebark chuckled in his place in the shadows. Brightmoon settled down in the circle of Wildwood's arms, leaning against her lifemate's chest. The tension had been a good thing; it was anticipation of history to be told, but Brightmoon was confident in her Howlkeeper's ability to build it anew.

Shadowlight took the place before the fire Brightmoon had vacated, the flame light dancing in the gold streaks in her hair as she bowed her head. "The tale of Two-Spear and Skyfire is a long one, touched with hate and love, blood and death, a challenge lost and a challenge won," she began. "But that is not our tale for this night. Tonight, we begin in a place of thin trees and dark caves, of plains and grassland and neverending thirst for the blood of the five-fingered ones we call humans. Tonight, I sing of Blinkstrike, for that is truly where the origin of our tribe begins..."

***

"This is the beginning of a new life for our people. A world without humans. A world where we can go as we wish, do as we wish, _when _we wish. In this place are the means to forge a new path... _if_ we have the courage to embrace them. I say, _welcome _it with open arms and open heart!"

Two-Spear's words lent courage to those who had joined him, carried them through the seasons' dances and into blood-maddened battle with each and every roaming band of humans they came across. Turns had passed and still the battle went on. The humans were a never-ending stream of ants crawling across the face of the world, but still, Two-Spear's tribe slaughtered and exulted in the deaths they brought to their age-old foes.

They had no magics among them, only Willowgreen's small healing, and that was spurned more often than it was sought. Time and again, the slender healer was left behind with the cubs the seasons had brought to Two-Spear's valiant warriors, worse than useless. Time and again, Two-Spear's hunting parties came back missing eyes, arms, once even a leg. But Two-Spear, mad in his vision, denied them all the comfort of healing beyond the bare minimum they would need to survive. Pain would teach them, he said. They would learn to respect pain, and pain would remind them of what was truly at stake.

A chance meeting with a tribe of free-roaming plains elves brought with it Recognition for Two-Spear, and in two turns, a strong girl-cub named Brindle to raise in the new "way" and to one day take up the chief's lock and her father's quest. When her mother Sarrah tried to teach Brindle the gentler ways of the plains elves, she was beaten like the lowest wolf and cast out from the tribe.

Two-Spear's vision of a world without humans obsessed him. He could not sleep but he saw the five-fingers in his mind, torturing his tribemates and skinning their wolf-friends for leathers. Like a wolf with the foaming sickness, he turned on his packmates one by one, accusing them of disloyalty and cowardice. His Wolfriders were a hardy, resilient lot, obedient to the will of their chief, but there came a point when even his staunchest and most loyal riders turned their backs on him, unable to bear his recklessness anymore.

Eventually, Two-Spear's obsession consumed him, and in the space between one night and the next, he was gone. The magic-cave that had sheltered the tribe for eights of turns seemed emptier, less alive, with their vibrant if insane chief missing. It took eights-of-days for the tribe to accept that Two-Spear was _not _off on a solo hunt and that he would not be returning.

And so the strongest warriors in the tribe vied for leadership amongst themselves. Greywolf, arguably the most experienced and strongest warrior of the tribe, claimed leadership. Though she only had one arm, Fang challenged Greywolf, and though she gave him a fair run and a hearty fight, she eventually lost. Icemane challenged next, and was defeated. And so it went, each warrior who thought to claim the leadership challenging and being defeated in turn.

At the last, Brindle stepped up to the challenge. Brindle was the rightful Blood of Chiefs, but she was looked over, considered by all to be too young, too inexperienced, too soft. She did not like to kill without need, she did not like to hunt humans. She was the low wolf, tolerated only because she was Two-Spear's get. And when she offered her challenge, barely two-eights of turns old, standing with her father's left-behind spear, the tribe laughed at her audacity.

Brindle stood firm in the face of all their mockery, and the joke lost all its humor in her staunch refusal to back down. Greywolf, the champion of eight-and-one challenges so far, accepted her challenge with a snarl, and prepared to put the low wolf firmly back in her place. Chief's cub or not, she would learn the law of the wolf pack.

Or so they thought.

Brindle had been watching the previous challenges, sizing up her opponent and learning his strengths and weaknesses. She had her father's ferocity, and her mother's speed and grace. In her hands, her father's spear whirled a far more accurate weapon than it had ever been in Two-Spear's grasp, and before Greywolf could blink, the butt had smashed into his knee and chest, knocking the legs from under him and the breath from his lungs. When he moved to recover, he found the point of Brindle's weapon sure and steady at his throat so he could not gain his feet without driving the head into his flesh.

"Yield or die," she said, and for the first time, the tribe realized that she truly was Two-Spear's cub, with all the implacability of her sire. Greywolf found no shame in his defeat and proudly tied the chief's lock in her hair himself. In the nights that came, he became her closest advisor and Brindle was renamed Blinkstrike by the tribe in honor of her quick and decisive victory over the strongest warrior in their number.

Her first decision as chief was to withdraw from the lands of the five-fingered humans. Much like her father's sister Skyfire in mind, she decreed that there would be no more challenges to the humans. If they came to challenge, it would be answered and with all the fury and ferocity the Wolfriders could offer at that, but while she ruled, no conflict would ever be started by an elf.

She led the Wolfriders for eights of turns, until they reached the Deep Green Forest and found the great, ancient tree that would serve as holt and home to countless Wolfriders for seven generations of chiefs. Humans occasionally wandered into Wolfrider lands, but while Blinkstrike decreed against initiating conflict with the humans, she spoke not against her tribe's right to defend their territory, and for this, she was respected, and loved, until her death eights and eights and eights of turns after her ascension to the chief's lock.

***

Mother Moon was low in the sky by the time Shadowlight's melodic voice drew the tale to a close. The gathered tribes as one howled their appreciation of a good tale, howled their respect for the long-dead chieftess, except Brightmoon who only bit her lip. There was yet more to the story, there always was. Blinkstrike's peace had lasted only until her death, a senseless death at the hands of the humans when they had found her and her lifemate bathing in a stream.

But that was too sour a taste for the night to end on, so Brightmoon held her peace. She was no Howlkeeper and she trusted Shadowlight's judgement for when a tale should begin and end. Who was she to break the mood of goodwill and camaraderie the story had engendered between the tribes.

The gathering broke up soon after. The last of the meat was eaten, the last of the wine drank, and Wolfriders made their ways to their dens for the day. Brightmoon was surprised, but pleased, to discover that some of her own tribe had made friendships strong enough to share trees for the day, as Shadowlight and Sureshot followed Pike and the strange elf called Krim into the branches of the Father Tree.

Brightmoon herself remained in the circle of her lifemate's arms bidding good day to her tribe as they found their places to sleep, and stirred only when she noticed the redheaded treeshaper Redlance and his lifemate Nightfall smile and beckon to them both.

Wildwood chuckled, the sound a deep rumbling under her ear. **We seem to have made an impression,** he said. **Shall we take them up on their offer?**

She smiled, and patted his knee. **You go ahead, beloved,** she sent back fondly. **I'll join you shortly.**

**Are you sure?**

She laughed then. **Quite sure. If I know you, and I do, beloved Trel, you and the other tree-shaper will have your heads together talking about plant-lore until the daystar sets again.**

He nuzzled her cheek. **You know me too well, my Zyll. I'll await your coming.**

**I know you will.** She rose to her feet, offered a hand to help him up, and shared a warm embrace. She watched him go to join Redlance and Nightfall, watched them query him and then nod in understanding. For the first time, looking at them side-by-side, she was struck by just how much the two tree-shapers, hers and her kin Cutter's, resembled each other.

A step behind her warned her that she was not alone, and the scent that followed gave her companion's identity. "Cutter," she said, turning to give him a smile of greeting.

He came to her side, folded his arms, and smiled himself. "Like twin cubs separated at birth," he murmured, nodding at the two tree-shapers.

"Wildwood has never known another tree-shaper," she said, straining to catch the last glimpse of her lifemate as he disappeared into one of the numerous dens that marked the giant Father Tree. "There have only been three ever in our tribe, and the last before Wildwood died turns before his birth. When he discovered Redlance could shape plants as well..." She grinned at the memory. "It was like the sweetest dreamberry patch to him. I am glad he finally has someone who shares his gift."

Comfortable silence passed between the chiefs as the last of their tribes found their boltholes for the day, and then Brightmoon sighed. "When we set out on this journey," she said, "we were looking for a new holt, and maybe some sign of our lost cousins' passage." She shook her head, smiling ruefully. "We didn't actually expect to _find_ you. It's all a little ... overwhelming. But your scents wash over us like family we have never known, and your Father Tree feels like a home we have never visited."

"Our own tales tell us that Two-Spear died, and all his splintered tribe with him. It's good to know that wasn't true... that you've thrived since splintering from our tribe." He smiled, and grasped her hand. "Our lost brothers and sisters are welcome in our holt, and if you wish, we'll give you whatever aid we can in finding a new Holt. Shade and sweet water to you, Brightmoon."

Brightmoon's smile faded as she watched Cutter walk to his den and disappear inside. She sighed, then trudged towards the den her lifemate had disappeared into not long ago. Though she tried not to think of it, she couldn't help but wonder if Cutter and his tribe, Ember and her tribe, would truly accept them if they knew the full truth of things...

And then Wildwood, nude and perfect, was in her sight, and all unsettling and gloomy thoughts fled her mind until sleep claimed her for the day's passage.


End file.
